


If I told you I loved you, what would you say?

by missbolton



Series: soft andreil [2]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Hand Jobs, Ice Cream, Kissing, M/M, Nightmares, Watching Someone Sleep, andrew being comfortable, andrew wears glasses!!!!, neil stressing abt telling andrew he loves him, referenced blowjobs, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 00:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14200503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbolton/pseuds/missbolton
Summary: These three words are impossibly simple, yet horribly difficult.Those three words have been plaguing his thoughts for weeks on end. He’s been harbouring them, unsure whether sharing them with be smart.'I love you.'





	If I told you I loved you, what would you say?

**Author's Note:**

> hey so i've not slept in 36 hours and i was like "what i could do instead of actual school work???" so this was born.
> 
> (nora said in extra content that andrew and neil never say 'i love you' to each other and i uhhh ... i tried to stick to that.)

Neil’s nightmares are never fun, but they’re bearable.

He is no stranger to waking up breathless and sweaty, mind whirring with caustic memories. Neil is often ripped from sleep by Lola’s taunting smirk, Riko’s looming face, his father’s flashing eyes as he plans different ways to kill him.

Most times, Neil takes a few deep breaths, has a drink of water, and then he is fine to go back to bed and stare at Andrew’s sleeping face until he is dragged into unconsciousness. But other times, he is left shivering and empty and hurting. Sleeping isn’t an option on nights like those. He will only be chased awake for a second time, phantom pain tingling across his body.

Tonight, he wakes with a start, heart hammering and anger flaming. His nails are bitten down but still leave indents on his palms, little half-moons, as he tries to regain a steady breathing pattern.

The dream had been a twisted, strange reenactment of his time at the Nest. That’s a common episode. Although instead of Jean Moreau keeping guard, it was Dan and Matt. There was a blade digging into Neil’s flesh and blood dripping down his sides, handcuffs digging scars into his wrists, and he had _screamed_ . Every twist of the knife hurt one thousand times worse than it ever had before. He yelled and cried until his voice was hoarse. But Dan hadn’t even spared him a glance. Matt had looked at him, long and hard with familiar eyes, before turning his gaze away and checking to see that nobody is coming. Checking to see that nobody would interrupt Riko whilst he cut new scars onto his already battered torso. Matt and Dan had somehow morphed into the others - Nicky was there, watching with light interest as a jagged _R_ was carved into Neil’s shoulder blade. Allison was there, too, holding Neil’s legs down so he wouldn’t kick out. Dream-Neil had begged. He had begged Allison to let go, begged Nicky to _help_ , begged for the others to stop this. They can stop this.

But Neil hadn’t been pulled awake until Andrew appeared. He looked just like real-Andrew does: light hair, impassive expression, sharp jaw. But there was a strange sort of glint in his eyes, and it had flashed at Neil tauntingly when Andrew had ignored Neil’s pleas of _help me help me get him off me_ and turned away.

Andrew had left.

Neil’s heart is hitting against his rib cage with such force that he’s surprised his ribs haven’t cracked under the pressure. The shaking eases slightly and he is eventually able to reach for the glass of water by the bed,  taking several long gulps and swallowing loudly.

Beside him, curled up with his back facing the wall, is Andrew. Neil is surprised he didn’t wake up at the disturbance. He’s a light sleeper, jumping awake at the slightest noise or movement and taking a while to fall back into slumber. It’s taken a while for them to be able to share a bed so casually, and Andrew always drifts off with his back pressed firmly to the wall. To make sure that he won’t be attacked. So he is able to defend himself. That fact always ignites something in Neil’s chest, chants of _unfair unfair unfair._

Andrew looks so peaceful in sleep. So pretty. His lips are parted slightly, each soft breath causing his chest to rise and fall underneath the comforter, and Neil finds himself fascinated. He eases back down onto the pillow and turns on his side, facing Andrew. The urge to reach out and stroke his face surfaces temporarily, but Neil smothers it and keeps his hands firmly to himself. He still looks - if Andrew’s eyes were open, he would say something about Neil’s insistent staring. In fact, Neil decides in this very moment that Andrew’s face is his favourite thing to look at. Fuck the sunset. Fuck the stars. They pale in comparison to this, to the sight of the dip of Andrew’s cheekbone, to the pale skin of his face. Neil’s always marvelled the fact of how _nice_ his skin is, unblemished and soft. Even his scars, the site of damage and trauma, are smooth. On the rare occasions Andrew allowed them to be touched, they had slipped softly past the pads of Neil’s fingers.

The dream tries to surface, the icy betrayal of Andrew’s retreating figure playing on loop in his mind, but Neil drowns it out. He distracts himself by staring at Andrew’s lips, tracing the path which leads from his curved nose to his eyebrows, then onto his thin eyelids. Without his deep, intense gaze, Andrew looks less like Andrew. Those hazel eyes are often the only indication he’s feeling anything at all. Neil can easily recognize anger splintering through the irises, or arousal widening his pupils, or affection soothing his glare. Whereas Andrew was some strange and detached figure when Neil first joined the Foxes, reading Andrew has become second nature by now, every shift of his expression and twitch of his posture speaking louder than any words ever could.

In his sleep, Andrew twitches slightly, his eyebrows furrowing before relaxing again. His breathing hitches, and Neil briefly wonders whether he is having a nightmare. He is never like Neil is, thrashing and jumping awake, instead he is eerily quiet until his eyes snap open. Then, he will grab his cigarettes with shaking fingers and go up to the roof, regardless of the time or the temperature. He won’t even bother to take a hoodie with him. Neil knows he gets cold, but lets himself get stupidly frozen because he’s hoping that the biting cold will distract him from the chaotic march of anger and trauma in his head.

Something warm floods his stomach when Andrew lets out a quiet, gentle sort of noise. Like a cat. It’s definitely not a nightmare. His expression is calm and relaxed, breathing even.

There are three words he wants to say, that are dancing on the tip of his tongue. It would be so easy. Three simple words, each monosyllable stirring deep from in his heart. If he said them now, they would go unheard. Nothing would be ruined.  


This is perfect, isn’t it? If Neil rewinds to two years ago, when he had been running and hiding and keeping all these big, horrible secrets trapped inside himself, it seems unreal that he is here now. Neil has never slept easily. Sleep has always been restless, constantly interrupted by paranoia, shattered by the belief that he can never be safe. He and his mother slept back to back, guns under the pillows. Just in case. Now, there is nothing hard underneath his pillow, and the weight settled next to him in the bed isn’t unsettling him like it used to. Two years ago, Neil wasn’t really _Neil_ , instead he was an imposter with brown hair and brown eyes and no family left. ‘Neil Josten’ was a temporary cover, just a name to fit into whilst he plotted his next escape.

The warmth does not stop. It envelops him fully until his nightmare is faded, as if it happened years ago instead of a few minutes previous. Even when Neil has been awake for over an hour, he still barely restrains a smile, the knowledge that Andrew is _here,_ next to him, _comfortable_ around him sending spikes of happiness through his chest. _I love you._ It would so easy.

Neil still manages to hold himself back, drifting off into a light sleep with three words burning holes in his mind.

* * *

 

They are lying together, legs intertwined as they get each other off. Andrew’s eyes have firmly fixed themselves on the ceiling and Neil’s trail appreciatively across his face, finding and looking deeply at each individual freckle, staring unabashedly at the curve of his nose and the dip of his cheekbone. Neil watches the muscle in his jaw work furiously and feels a glimmer of smugness, knowing that it’s taking actual _effort_ for Andrew to hold back.

If Neil didn’t know Andrew as well as he does, he would grow concerned about the stiff quality of his posture, worrying that the _yes_ murmured against his cheek several minutes ago has since morphed into a _no_ without him knowing. But Andrew doesn’t do what he doesn’t want to. If he wanted to say no, he would, and he hasn’t. That means he still wants this - _this_ being Neil’s hand stroking up and down his cock, movements controlled and slow, whilst his own hand does exactly the same to Neil. Their movements are in tandem. 

Andrew’s hair is sticking up a little on one side from having slept on it all night. In a rapid burst of affection, Neil stops just staring, and leans forwards and presses a chaste, innocent kiss to the side of Andrew’s face. He kisses him again, this one more resembling an actual kiss, trailing his tongue down Andrew’s sharp jawline and onto his neck. The skin is strangely soft there. It drives him mad when Neil sucks faint, not-quite-hickies into his skin, tenderly biting. This is obvious. Whenever he does it, Andrew tightens his grip and his eyes narrow at whatever he’s looking at, a clear sign that that feels good and he does not want to show that.

The palm running up and down Neil’s cock begins to move faster. Neil gasps in surprise at the sudden change of pace, and attempts to copy the movements, but he’s too wrapped up in bliss at this new sensation.

“Oh, _god_ ,” Neil moans, probably a little too loud for the current atmosphere. It’s been quiet for so long, filled with nothing but his gasps and ragged breathing. He tries to resume his task of kissing Andrew’s neck and simultaneously jerking him off, but the second his lips touch the skin there again, Andrew does that _maddening_ thing where he runs his thumb over the head. In surprise and pleasure combined, Neil jerks his hips up into Andrew’s hand, desperate for more pressure.

Andrew is looking at him now. Neil doesn’t rip his gaze away from his eyes, hazel and nearly swallowed by blown pupils, not even when Andrew pushes his thumb across the head of his cock another time. Instead he moans, loudly, louder than he intended it to come out.

All it takes from then on is a few more twists of his hand and Neil is coming, frantically twitching his hips up and throwing his head back. He assumes he looks ridiculous, mouth hanging open and making guttural noises, but in that moment, all he can do is focus on the pleasure fizzling through him. There’s something dark shimmering in Andrew’s eyes and when Neil finally summons the strength to meet the gaze, it sends a shiver down his spine.

There are three words - impossibly simple, yet horribly difficult - that have been settled at the back of his mind for weeks.

 _I love you. I love you. I love you_.

Neil keeps those thoughts tucked far away. “Still yes?”

“Yes.”

Neil moves his hand again with renewed vigour, kissing the same spot on Andrew’s neck. Fingers curl onto Neil’s arm and grip, _hard_ , probably hard enough to leave bruises. He gasps at the sensation and takes it as encouragement to move faster. His arm begins to burn with the brisk movements, but it doesn’t take long after that. Andrew lets out a low, rumbling groan and then something warm and wet lands on Neil’s hand.

It’s rare for Andrew to make noise. Usually Neil takes satisfaction in just watching him, analysing all the tiny twitches of his expression, the frown which pushes lines deep into his forehead and the clench of his jaw. Sometimes Andrew’s mouth falls silently open, jaw going slack, but that’s only when he’s at the height of pleasure and unable to do much else. Neil doesn’t mind. In fact, it’s comforting. Quiet and Andrew have always come hand in hand - that makes it all the more pleasing when Andrew does let a groan slip past his teeth.

The noise peters out until it’s almost silent again. Almost. Neil can’t quite fix his uneven breathing, willing himself to remember that _face_ that Andrew makes just as he goes over the edge, all screwed up eyes and ragged breathing. This is when he wishes he could possess the eidetic memory which Andrew does.

He cherishes the minute which they lie together, vaguely aware of his arm throbbing, a dull ache, from where Andrew had gripped it. It’s a good ache, though. Reminds him that this was _real_ \- Andrew isn’t some unfriendly ghost who decides to show up in Neil’s dreams. It proves that he felt good, proves that he made somebody else feel good.

“Andrew,” he half-whispers. He’s not sure where he was going with that.

Andrew hums, affirmation that he’s listening.

“I … can I lean on you?”

“Yes.”

Neil settles his head on Andrew’s shoulder, cherishing the warmth and undeniable solidity beneath him. After a few seconds, Andrew huffs.

“I can hear you thinking.”

“Sorry.”

“What is it?” Andrew asks. His voice is empty of any emotion. If Neil didn’t know any better, he would assume that Andrew doesn’t care about the answer.

_I love you. I don’t want to lie to you, but I don’t want to say it._

“My ankle hurts,” he offers, which isn’t entirely untrue. It was only a sprain, but the pain has lingered for days. “I’m dreading practice. I fucking hate Jack.”

There is no reply, but the way Andrew brushes his hand over Neil’s wrist shows more comfort than words ever would.

Neil swallows the admission of _I’m in fucking love with you_ and buries his face closer into Andrew’s shoulder.

* * *

After his shower, Neil pulls on a pair of sweatpants and flops back onto the bed. Hotel beds always feel strange, lacking the familiarity of the bed in Colombia or the dorms. Neil has been no stranger to sleeping on lumpy, uncomfortable beds his whole life - often, he’d find himself on the floor. That always left his back hurting like hell. At least a hotel bed is still a _bed,_ and Andrew will be sleeping next to him. His weight on the mattress has become Neil’s clutch into the present. Sometimes, if he wakes up panting and thrashing, the sight of Andrew curled up next to him is enough to slow his hammering heart.

“You slept in the car,” Andrew reminds him as his eyes begin to flutter closed.

“Mhm. I know.” Neil forces his eyes open and props himself up a little, looking at Andrew properly. His heart does a funny little spasm.

Andrew looks undeniably _comfortable_ . He is wearing his glasses, which he never does in front of the team, and an oversized hoodie which looks like it could belong to Kevin. It’s almost comical how it swallows him up. Neil is surprised to see him so relaxed, seeing as they aren’t in familiar territory. Usually Andrew wears tight, fashionable clothes and only takes them off before bed. But now … well, it’s impossible to ever describe Andrew Minyard as _adorable_ , but it’s something along those lines.

There’s a confession nagging at his mind. _I love you_. But he shoves it deep down.

Andrew pads to the bed and it’s only then that Neil notices the ice cream in his hands. Neil can’t remember him buying that. Admittedly, the car ride was sort of a blur. He remembers waking up a few times and holding Andrew’s hand whilst he slept, but that’s about it.

If it was anybody else driving him somewhere, Neil would hate feeling so confused and tired. Two years ago, Neil could never, ever imagine throwing his safety into somebody else’s hands. It’s still sort of unnerving. The ghostly echoes of his mother’s voice telling him to _never trust anybody, never let anybody help, never let anybody in_ ring around his mind, but he doesn’t listen. That advice was tuned out long ago, ever since the acrid smell of smoke became a reminder of _Andrew_ rather than Mary.

Neil sits up fully, crossing his legs so he is sitting opposite Andrew. He pretends not to notice Andrew’s eyes flicker to his bare torso and then wrench themselves away again.

“I never liked hotels,” he says absently. An unimpressed look is what he gets in return.

“You never complain when we’re here.”

“No, I mean, before … Palmetto.” _Before you_. “It was always risky to come here, you know?”

“You’ve been before.”

“Mhm. Once. We gave fake names but I still didn’t leave the room. The door stayed locked and we left early the next morning. It was miserable. I told myself I would never come back to a hotel.”

“And yet here you are,” Andrew says blankly.

“Yet here I am,” Neil agrees. He smiles loopily at Andrew, very aware of how stupid he must look. He feels overwhelmed with how homely this feels, even if this is an unfamiliar hotel. “It’s different now, though. Last time changed my mind.”

At the mention of last time, Andrew’s eyes darken a little. Neil never expected his first time giving a blowjob to be in a hotel, not where people could overhear, but Andrew doesn’t make much noise. Most of the signs from him are in his actions: the clench of his jaw, the sharpness of his eyes, the unforgiving grip on the sheets. There are times when he lets a groan slip from between his teeth. Neil cherishes those moments above all. It is Andrew’s own way of showing comfort and appreciation, by putting himself in Neil’s hands and trusting him.

Andrew eats more ice cream, the spoon coming out his mouth clean. A little bit stays on the corner of his lip, and Neil tries to hide his smile.

“What?” Andrew eventually asks, seemingly sick of Neil’s staring.

“Yes or no?”

Feigning great annoyance, Andrew murmurs, “Yes.”

He leans in and kisses him slowly, deliberately swiping his tongue over the ice cream. It tastes just as sweet as always, but somehow it tastes different on Andrew’s mouth than it does straight from the spoon.

The kiss isn’t heated. It  just feels fulfilling. Neil tilts his head a little, lightly running his tongue across Andrew’s bottom lip. They’ve not kissed in the last few hours, caught up with driving and showering and unpacking. Now, they have all night to themselves. The thought sends warmth splintering through his body, all the way to his fingertips and toes.

Eventually, he pulls back and battles the heat rising to his cheeks.

“What flavour is that?” Neil asks.

Andrew tilts the label towards Neil, who sighs. Trust Andrew to get the most unhealthy, chocolate-ridden option there is.

“It’s not bad, considering it’s probably about three times your daily calorie intake.”

“Thought you didn’t like anything sweet.”

“I don’t. Not really. I mean … it’s nicer than the other one you get.”

Andrew digs the spoon in again, but instead of bringing it to own lips, he holds it to Neil. He stares at it for a few seconds in surprise - Andrew barely shares his ice cream, let alone sharing a spoon. In annoyance at being kept waiting, Andrew prods at his lips. Cold startles him and Neil opens his mouth, letting himself be fed, feeling stupid underneath Andrew’s cold gaze.

It feels weirdly intimate. He’s seen Matt and Dan do something like this before and remembers thinking it was beyond pointless. Why not just eat your own food? But apparently it’s fun to do, something cute and couple-y which Neil was completely content staying out of.

He notes Andrew eyes fix sharply on his mouth as the spoon slides out, and decides that it’s not that bad after all.

“Nice?” Andrew mocks.

“It’s lovely,” Neil replies, grimacing at the assaulting taste. It’s rich and sickly. Even when he swallows it, the reminder of it sticks to his tongue. “Eugh. Do you not get bored of it?"

Andrew mumbles something which sounds suspiciously like, “I’m getting bored of _you_.”

Neil grins and falls backwards again, head hitting the multitude of pillows. He looks at how the legs of his sweatpants barely reach his ankle, and realises he must have pulled Andrew’s on. Not that it seems to be a problem. In fact, Andrew’s eyes seem to keep flicking back to them, as if there’s something awfully captivating about Neil in his clothes. Neil stores that particular piece of information in the back of his mind and intends to use it at some point.

Andrew takes a while to finish eating. By the time Neil hears the telltale clink of the spoon against the bedside table, he has drifted off into a daydream, eyes glazed as he stares at the ugly coloured curtains. In comparison, Andrew’s eyes are bright and magnetic behind the lenses of his glasses. Neil’s never found brown eyes very interesting - that’s why he chose muddy brown for his contacts when he first joined the Foxes - but, as with everything, Andrew is the exception. His eyes aren’t quite brown. They are hazel, speckled with odd bits of yellow only noticeable insanely close up. Nobody gets close enough to Andrew to notice that.

Nobody except Neil.

He keeps that shred of satisfaction to himself, tucking it far away from prying eyes.

“Yes or no?” Andrew asks, sounding bored, but there’s a glint in his eye which betrays his expression.

“Yes,” Neil answers, the word strong and sure. He’s not sure he’s ever meant anything more.

They meet in the middle, lips gliding against each other for a moment before Andrew opens his mouth and pushes himself closer. His tongue tastes sweet. Relief is a firework in Neil’s chest; he hadn’t realised how bored he was until Andrew kissed him. He makes a noise and is kissed harder in retaliation.

 _Shut up_ , Andrew says through pushing his teeth into Neil’s lip.

 _Make me_ , Neil replies, pulling away from Andrew’s mouth and inching down to his neck, kiss by kiss. When he reaches his destination, Neil runs his tongue appreciatively over spots he knows make Andrew shudder. The result is a light shiver, nothing more. A glance tells Neil that Andrew’s hands are in fists, nails digging into his palm. Satisfaction sparks through him at the knowledge that it’s taking actual _effort_ for Andrew to hold back.

He’s never left a mark on Andrew’s neck. His skin is pale and unblemished, unbelievably perfect.

“Touch me,” Neil says. It’s an offer and a question all in one.

“Where?"

“Wherever you want.”

Andrew glares at him but obliges. His hands are calloused and familiar, slipping down from his shoulder to his chest. The other hand runs smoothly down his arm, gripping his bicep and squeezing lightly. Just to annoy Andrew, he flexes, and earns himself a scowl.

“Can I touch you?”

“Above the hips.”

Neil takes the offer gratefully, gently slipping his hands over Andrew’s back. Through the hoodie, there isn’t the same intense closeness there is with bare skin, but Neil can still feel the dip of Andrew’s spine and the muscles tensing as he adjusts to the grip. The next kiss is soft and welcoming.

Looking back, Neil never remembers wanting something like this. The kisses shared with foreign girls whilst he was living under a different name felt nothing in comparison to this. Those were all primarily one-sided, the girl twisting her head and pushing her tongue over his teeth. When they pulled back, his mouth always felt gross. It wasn’t very good. It definitely wasn’t worth the hits earned when his mother found out.

But Neil would take as many strikes from his mother as necessary if all kissing felt like this. It’s just the right mix between heat and comfort, each harsh movement softened by Andrew’s hands trailing across his skin. Teeth dig into his lip; Andrew follows it with fingers brushing through his hair.

Neil runs his hand up Andrew’s back, fingers running past the jut of his shoulder blades. If he judges by the shuddering breaths, his movements aren’t unappreciated. Neil retraces the path, firmer this time, and is rewarded by blunt nails biting into his arm. Slowly, with all the contentment in the world, he maps out the familiar expanse and feeling of Andrew’s body.

Andrew pulls back suddenly; Neil prepares to be told no, pulling his touch away. But Andrew is just looking, pupils blown and cheeks flushed, staring with familiar intensity. Words look like they’re brewing on his tongue but his tightly clenched jaw keeps them at bay.

“136 percent,” Andrew tells him eventually.

To contain his smile, he presses his lips together. He can’t help but remember that the last percentage was higher than that. It is Andrew’s own way of showing deep-rooted affection, even if an outsider would find his brusque tone offensive or his strange mannerisms would confuse somebody else. Neil knows that breaking through his learned apathy is not an easy task.

Affection swells in his chest. The temptation to _say it_ is almost suffocating. It would be like a dam bursting, throwing out all of his feelings into the air for Andrew to catch.

He doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he pulls Andrew closer and connects their mouths again, hoping that the words are conveyed through the gentle touches and hot kisses.

* * *

Bizarrely, it hadn’t been Neil who started it. Jack had been pissed off about a particularly bad practice and he had it ingrained in his mind that his shitty playing was all Neil’s fault. Everybody is tired and spirits are low after their recent losses, but only Jack took it quite as personally. Maybe it’s because the one win they’ve scraped recently has been thanks to Kevin; Jack might as well have been benched for the amount of help he was.

All of Jack’s scathing remarks go ignored. Neil just sighs and focuses on his muscles, which burn in protest of being so overworked.

“It’s a shame Josten can’t pull himself together, isn’t it?” Jack says loudly, for everybody to hear. Nobody really merits him with a response. Even Sheena, who usually backs him up with biting comments aimed at Neil, seems too exhausted to start a fight. The only people who show any sign of listening are Nicky and Aaron. Nicky just rolls his eyes and continues checking his phone; Aaron is shooting cautious glances at Andrew, as if he’s about to explode and throw a knife into Jack’s windpipe. However, Andrew seems just as unfazed as Neil. “I mean, losing against the shittiest teams is a let down. It’s ever since Josten became vice-captain. Haven’t you noticed? The Foxes beat the Ravens. Now we can barely show up to the matches without looking like idiots.”

The lack of a reaction doesn’t do anything to disconcert Jack, who doesn’t seem to be able to stop poking and prodding, almost begging Neil to snap. To break. To react.

And he doesn’t - not until they are walking, and Jack accidentally slips his foot in front of Neil’s. It’s childish, really. On a day when he isn’t spent and weighted by his exhaustion, it would have been easy to catch himself and promptly tell Jack to fuck off. But today, he goes sprawling over, his elbow catching the floor painfully.

“What the fuck!” Nicky yells, just as Kevin goes, “Really?”

Once on his feet, Neil drops his bag and turns to Jack. The few inches he has on Neil don’t mean anything - Jack’s reactions are slower. He’s not expecting the fist which comes flying at him, striking his cheek hard enough to bruise. It’s not as hard as it could be, but it’s enough to send Jack stumbling back into the crowd.

Of course, it is not taken well. Jack’s pride is wounded and his face is already beginning to swell. He comes charging back, swinging his fists madly. In the scuffle, Jack knocks them back over, and Neil finds himself bringing his knee into Jack’s groin. A few curse words and punches later, Andrew pulls Jack off of Neil with one hand, looking as bored as if he was swatting away a fly. The only giveaway is the assessing and concerned look he shoots Neil, who is lying on the ground. He can feel a bruise blooming on his eye and isn’t sure whether there is blood trickling from his mouth.

“Jesus, Jack. What are you doing?” Kevin asks indignantly.

“You can’t just _attack_ people!”

“He hit Jack first!”

“Jack tripped Neil first!”

“Doesn’t mean Neil gets to punch him.”

They all erupt into a chorus of insults and disagreements. Andrew pulls Neil to his feet and looks at his face with apparent disinterest.

Andrew says nothing, yet Neil feels obligated to reply to his vehement stare.

“Didn’t start it.” The words sound strange as he talks around the blood. He wipes it with his arm and winces at the sting.

“Stop it.” Andrew grabs his arm. “You’re an idiot.”

“Still didn’t start it.”

“I hate you.”

That doesn’t stop him from cleaning the blood from Neil’s lip and holding an ice pack to his face when they get back to the dorms. It doesn’t stop him from checking Neil’s torso for any bruises either. He soothes away Neil’s discomfort by running his flat palms over Neil’s shoulders and pressing chaste kisses under his jaw, refusing to kiss him on the lips. He claims it’s because of the fact that Neil could start bleeding again - _“I’m not fucking kissing you whilst there’s blood in your mouth” -_ but Neil notices the way Andrew’s eyes keep flicking to the cut, half-fretful and half-annoyed.

At some point, Andrew had clambered onto him to hold the ice pack with enough pressure. He is straddling Neil’s knees, so close to him that Neil swears he can feel Andrew’s steady heart rate against his rib cage.

“Andrew,” Neil says.

“I’m not kissing you.”

“I wasn’t going to ask that.” Neil tries to hide his smile, but seeing as Andrew is directly above him, it’s difficult.

“What, then?”

“I … well, thanks, I guess.”

Andrew glares at him. Up this close, the hostility is sort of muted. This close proximity smooths down their edges until they can easily slot together, guarding each other’s backs. This is a nice feeling, Neil muses. Andrew’s knees are either side of his hips and a few centimetres would connect their groins, but he’s never thought of Andrew sitting on him like this in a non-sexual manner, and he likes it. This type of intimacy adds to the ever growing list of reasons Neil is thankful to be alive.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” Neil perseveres, despite his previous admissions not going very well. “I don’t take it for granted.”

It seems as if Andrew is lost in thought for a moment. His eyes glaze over, masks of indifference, and if Neil hazards a guess, he’s reliving how he took care of a battered and broken man after he came back from Baltimore. But Andrew is back to the present within a second, responding with a characteristically sharp, “Shut up.”

“I mean it.” Where is he going with this? Neil isn’t sure. With every word, Andrew’s body is slowly hardening, tension coiling into his muscles. “I … I never tell you. What I feel. You need to know it.”

“What are you trying to achieve, exactly?”

“I’m not sure,” he confesses. “You make me feel … happy, I guess.”  In response, Andrew pushes the ice pack harder against his eye. “I don’t think you know how -”

“Stop talking.”

“Andrew, let me -”

“No,” he snaps, cold and blank, although there’s something fighting against the dark depths of his eyes, stirring to escape. For a horrible second, Neil wants Andrew to lose control, to say everything which flits through his mind rather than carefully choosing words. Then, he remains thankful that Andrew at least has the security of his own head. “I know what you’re going to do. You’re going to say something stupid that you’ll regret.”

Neil blinks slowly. His eventual retort gets lost.

Those three words have been plaguing his thoughts for weeks on end. He’s been harbouring them, unsure whether sharing them with be smart. Sometimes, the copious amount of emotions start to overflow, and he just _has_ to show Andrew how much he means. Neil doesn’t think Andrew knows that he wakes up with his name on his tongue. He can’t have any idea how overwhelmed Neil feels from simply _looking at him._

As if his thoughts are being said out loud, Andrew stops him with a sharp, “Don’t.”

“Why not?” Neil asks, almost a whisper.

“Why would you need to?” Andrew shoots back, but Neil hears _why do you?_

“You know exactly why.”

“Shut up.”

“You -”

“Shut _up_.”

“Because I -”

His lip twinges in pain as Andrew clamps his hand over Neil’s mouth. The pain is gone within a second, but Andrew’s hand is strong against his mouth. The stream of _I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you_ is stifled.

Andrew is looking down at him unblinkingly, still pushing the ice pack on his bad eye. From the position, Andrew is taller. He looks down angrily, hazel eyes brewing up a storm. Slowly, almost afraid of moving too quickly, Andrew peels his hand off of Neil’s mouth, trusting him to keep his lips tightly sealed this time.

“You don’t need to,” Andrew mutters eventually, more breath than words, but Neil hears it perfectly. “You don’t need to say anything.”

There’s so much unsaid between them, but they’re both quiet men by nature, using actions rather than words to communicate. Neil knows that the words lingering on his tongue won’t make any difference. This is built on something steady, something _real_ , rather than just a flimsy sentence.

Neil doesn’t know what to say. His nod is almost meek.

Andrew heaves a sigh, as if being here with Neil is a huge chore in itself. After a second, he leans down and kisses Neil, cautiously avoiding the injured side of his mouth.A fingertip brushes lightly across his forehead, trailing down to his cheek and jaw. Like everything Andrew does, it means something. The kiss lasts for a few seconds, but within those few seconds, Neil lets all the messy and overmastering feelings fall away from his clutch. He throws himself entirely to Andrew; Andrew catches him with firm hands.

Andrew’s apology is in his firm touches; his thankyou is a soft kiss; Andrew’s trust is in his ‘ _yes or no_?’

His _I love you_ is everything combined, and somehow, that means much more than three syllables.  


**Author's Note:**

> comments/kudos v much appreciated!
> 
> if you have any more prompts for the soft andreil series, let me know! either on here or my aftg tumblr - minyardthings (idk how to link oops)


End file.
